


The Adventure Of The Marked Cards (1887)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [65]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Destiel - Freeform, F/M, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Scandal, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-06
Updated: 2017-05-06
Packaged: 2018-10-28 17:18:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10835778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: In a society where honour is everything, a man who cheats at cards is beyond the pale. Sherlock has to solve a case involving a secretive London club, where a man's coat proves a decisive factor in establishing his guilt.





	The Adventure Of The Marked Cards (1887)

**Author's Note:**

> Mentioned elsewhere as ' the affair at the Nonpareil Club'. This story contains non-graphic references to a suicide.

There were times when I felt truly sorry for Mrs. Ellen Harvelle, our illustrious landlady. The rag-tag assortment of humanity that came to her house in order to seek the offices of the capital's greatest detective must often times have sorely tried even her infinite patience, but she never complained (although it should be added that Sherlock and I paid a good rate for our rooms and always on time, unlike some of her other tenants). So when she met us returning from lunch at a nearby restaurant one Saturday in early autumn, I wondered as to what specimen of humanity had descended upon our rooms this time.

“There is a young lady to see you, gentlemen”, she said. “A very young lady; around sixteen I would judge. She arrived half an hour after you departed, and says that she has travelled all the way from Cheltenham to seek your services.”

“We had better not keep the young lady all the way from Cheltenham waiting, then”, Sherlock said. “Mrs. Harvelle, would you please be so good as to send up some tea and cakes? Our guest must have dined in her travels, but I am sure that she would appreciate some refreshment.”

She nodded and returned to her rooms, whilst we ascended the stairs.

“How can you know that she has dined?” I asked curiously.

“Consider the time”, he said. “She would have travelled from Cheltenham to Oxford or Bristol; there is no direct train that would have got her here so soon, hence she took two trains. The earliest that she could arrive at Paddington would be around ten, but in that case she would have come straight to us. So she was delayed, and realized that we might be at lunch, hence she would take her own sustenance and then come to see us.”

“But how can you know that she did not catch an earlier indirect train?” I demanded. “Surely there are some?”

“There are”, he said, “but she would first have to get to the station from the renowned Ladies' College in that spa town. And I doubt they would have been happy with her departing at such an ungodly hour.”

“You cannot know that she comes from there!” I protested. He turned and fixed me with those impossibly blue eyes.

“I am psychic, then, doctor”, he said dryly. “Either that or, unlike your good self, I observed the college hat on the hat-stand when we entered.”

Smug bastard, I thought, as I followed him up the stairs. 

I paused in my ascent. I was sure that he had muttered something under his breath. It had sounded like 'indeed'. Harrumph!

+~+~+

Mrs. Harvelle had been right about our guest, who could have been little more than sixteen years of age. As well as a small reticule, she had the day's newspaper in her hand.

“My name is Miss Elizabeth Forrester”, she said in a melodious voice, “and I have come down from Gloucestershire to see if I can obtain your services, Mr. Holmes. I should say at the start that I have little in the way of funds with which to recompense your efforts, but I hope and pray that you will at least hear me out.”

Sherlock smiled.

“As I am sure you are well aware”, he said, “I take cases for a variety of reasons, only one of which is the financial. If your case is of sufficient interest, then we shall see what we shall see.”

She nodded.

“Have you read the newspaper today?” she asked.

“The doctor has, I am sure, read the social pages”, he remarked slyly, moving out of swatting range. I scowled at him.

“It is a story from those pages that brings me to your door, sir”, she said. “The scandal at the Nonpareil Club.”

“I did read of it in the newspaper that you have there”, I said, ignoring the slight cough from a certain wiseacre in the room. “Colonel Jeremiah Upwood stands accused of cheating at cards. A most serious accusation.”

“My family live opposite the Upwoods in the town of Lee, in Kent”, she explained. “The Colonel's son, Cecil, is the same age as myself; we have grown up together.” She hesitated, before pushing on. “I should tell you that is fully my intention to marry him when he comes of age.”

I blinked at her forthrightness. 

“Does he concur with your schedule?” Sherlock asked politely.

“He does”, she said (I thought wryly that Mr. Upwood's concurrence might well be neither here nor there!). “We write each other weekly, but his letter did not arrive yesterday, which concerned me somewhat as he is most reliable in such things. I had thought that it might be a delay in the general post, rare though such an event is, but a telegram arrived last night with news of the scandal. He is of course devastated.”

I saw at once the hidden meaning in her words. If such an accusation stuck to the Colonel then his son would, however unfairly, be tarnished along with him. It was cruel, but it was the way of the world, and it would make our charming visitor's plans to marry Mr. Cecil Upwood all but impossible.

“This would be a very difficult investigation, Mr. Holmes”, she said. “From what I have read, the Nonpareil is one of the most secretive clubs in London, and since Cecil himself is not a member, I doubt that you will be able to gain access to undertake any inquiries there.”

Sherlock seemed to hesitate.

“I do not wish to assume the worst”, he said gently, “but have you considered the fact that the Colonel might actually be guilty in this matter?”

“Absolutely not!” she said, almost angrily. “He is a lovely old man, and such a thing would be totally out of character!”

I smiled inwardly at her vehemence.

“What are your plans for the rest of the day?” Sherlock asked.

“I intended to travel onto Lee, and hope to catch Cecil there”, she said. “I shall then spend the night at my parents' house, and return to college late tomorrow. In case you were wondering, I have alerted my form tutor as to my plans, and she gave me her full support, which went so far as to arrange a lift to the station for me. I shall of course have to catch up on the lessons that I miss, but that is not an issue just now.” 

“We will accompany you, then”, Sherlock said firmly. “We shall take the case.”

She looked surprised at her success, then smiled in relief.

+~+~+

The Upwood and Forrester houses lay close to the railway station in Lee, and Miss Forrester had not bought a bag with her, so we took a train down. On the way, our client made a confession.

“I fully appreciate that you need all the facts for your investigation, Mr. Holmes”, she said, “so I am going to tell you something. This is not the first time that Colonel Upwood's family has been involved in such a scandal. I am sure that others will rush to apprise you of this fact.”

“Do continue”, Sherlock said politely.

“Six years ago, the colonel's nephew Reuben was accused of cheating at cards, at a club in India”, she said. “It later emerged that the accuser had himself planted the marked cards in his jacket, an act seen by a native servant who only came forward some way into the trial. Reuben was totally exonerated, but you know how the newspapers are these days. They are bound to say that it runs in the family, that there is no smoke without fire....”

“In other words, all the old canards that sell copy”, Sherlock said wryly. “That may be important information, regardless. Do you know what happened to the man who accused him?”

“No”, she said, “but Cecil would know. He knows all that sort of thing.”

Sherlock nodded, and we continued our journey in silence. On reaching Lee we went to Colonel Upwood's home first, and were admitted by a dour-faced servant who told us that the Colonel was staying at a friend's house in London, but that the young master was home. 

We had barely sat down when Mr. Cecil Upwood entered. I try to avoid judging by first impressions, but I have to say that I liked the boy at once. Despite the heavy load that had undoubtedly fallen on his shoulders of late, he held himself erect, and had an open, honest face. He was also clearly both surprised and happy to see his near neighbour (and, I was sure, soon to be wife!), and greeted her warmly. Though when she introduced us by name, I saw a guarded look on his face.

“Eliza, dearest”, he said quietly, “is this wise?”

“We must have the truth, Cecil”, she said firmly. “Your dear father cannot live his life under a cloud of suspicion and poisonous whispers. Mr. Holmes and Doctor Watson can find the truth for us. Please?”

She gave him a beseeching look that was almost Sammy-esque (or perhaps these days I might term it Sherlock-esque) in its injured puppy status, and I could see him fold beneath it. Some men were so whipped!

Sherlock coughed for no apparent reason.

“I shall go across and tell my parents that I am here for an unexpected visit”, Miss Forrester said, “and you can tell our friends as much as you know.”

“Barrett is coming over any time now”, he told her. “Lieutenant Barrett Easton, from my father's old regiment, and one of the fellows there when it all happened. Have dinner with your parents, dearest, then come over later and talk to me then.”

She kissed him in a sisterly fashion, then left us. The door had barely closed behind her before the bell was ringing, and a few moments later Lieutenant Easton was admitted to us. He was in his mid-twenties, with eyes almost as blue as Sherlock's and a shock of untidy fair hair. Introductions were made, and we all sat down, dinner being not due for another half an hour.

“This is very bad”, Lieutenant Easton said frankly. “I do not want to think the worst, Cecil, but facts are facts.”

“Facts may be misleading”, Sherlock said crisply. “Pray, sir, tell us _exactly_ what happened on the day in question. Omit nothing, no matter how trivial it may seem to your good self.”

Thus prompted, the soldier began his tale.

“Colonel Upwood, myself, Lord Franks and Mr. Barclay meet every Tuesday at the Club for a set of rummy”, he said, sipping the drink that our host had poured for him. “Each of us takes a turn to bring cards and chips.”

“Why not use those provided by the Club?” I inquired.

“One of the odder rules of the building is that they are not allowed to supply anything that could be used for gaming”, the young man explained. “It is odd because there is no actual prohibition on gambling on the premises, but when the building was left to the founders of the Club as a bequest about thirty years back, that was one of the rules they laid down. On this night Lord Franks supplied the chips, and the Colonel the cards.”

“Tell us about the other two players before you go any further, if you please”, Sherlock said. 

“Lord Franks is about sixty, and very pro-military”, the Lieutenant said with a smile. “He sits in the House of Lords - he is a cross-bencher - and often speaks up for greater military spending. He is a good friend to the Colonel, and lives in Chislehurst, not far from here.”

“And Mr. Barclay?” Sherlock asked.

The soldier hesitated.

“He is a businessman, who has several properties in the Lee area”, he said. “He lives in one of them, but I do not know which one. I believe that he did make an offer to buy this house, but it was refused as he wished to knock it down and replace it with smaller houses for commuters.”

He did", Cecil Upwood confirmed. "My father wished to maintain good relations with the fellow, but was adamant that he would never sell this place."

“Motive”, I muttered darkly. Sherlock smiled at me.

“Always the cynic, doctor”, he chided gently, before turning back to the lieutenant. “Tell us who arrived at the Club, and at what time.”

“I only know that Mr. Barclay and Lord Franks were in the room when we arrived”, he said. “The Colonel and I got there at virtually the same time; we handed in our coats and joined them.”

“But you did not travel to the club together?”

“No, sir. He came from the barracks and I from the Gallery. I was approaching from the market, from the east, and he was coming the other way. I remember him saying the week before that his doctor had proscribed more exercise; he had used to take a cab for the journey.”

“Did any of you leave the room at all after your arrival?” Sherlock asked.

“Barclay and I both used the water closet, but that is a dead-end room off of ours. No-one else left until I dropped a card and noticed markings on the back when I picked it up. Lord, I wish that I had kept my stupid mouth shut!”

“Miss Forrester was kind enough to tell of of a scandal surrounding a cousin of yours”, Sherlock said to Mr. Upwood. “I believe over a similar event?”

Our host groaned.

“Eliza should not have mentioned that!” he grumbled.

“Someone was bound to”, Lieutenant Easton put in. “Truth will out, Cecil, especially once the papers get their teeth into a story. You know how they are these days.”

“Can you tell me anything about your cousin's accuser?” Sherlock asked.

“A Lieutenant Maudit, who took his own life when his lies were exposed”, Mr. Upwood said bitterly. “And good riddance too!”

Sherlock frowned.

“You do not happen to know where this man came from?” he asked.

“Northamptonshire, presumably”, our host said. “That was his county regiment. Easton is from Buckinghamshire, next door.”

“It happened in British India”, the lieutenant said. “It made quite a few ripples at the time; it was the talk of my barracks in Surrey, as we had some men out there. Sorry though I am to say it, Cecil, but your detective friend should know the whole, unvarnished truth. General opinion said that the whole thing had been a whitewash, and that your father had used his influence to get his nephew cleared. That turned out to be wrong, of course, but that was what most people _said_. It did not help that Reuben got killed barely a month later in a native uprising, which just made people start yammering on about karma and other such claptrap.”

“Gossipmongers all!” our host said sourly.

We were interrupted by the arrival of a servant, who whispered something to out host that caused him to excuse himself for a moment. As soon as he was gone, Sherlock leant over to the soldier. 

“There is one further matter I would value your opinion on, Lieutenant”, he said with a disarming smile. I flinched inwardly. He always used that tone just before a major strike. 

“Of course, sir”, he said.

“Your opinion on Miss Forrester.”

He looked like he had been shot, and though he strove to cover it up, we had both seen it.

“She has an Understanding with Cecil”, he said, sounding almost angry. “She does not know how I feel, and if you are both gentlemen, you will endeavour to keep it that way!”

We were precluded from any further conversation by our host's return. One look at his face told us he had not received good news. He was as white as a sheet.

“What is it?” Lieutenant Easton asked anxiously.

Cecil Upwood sat down heavily on his chair, and stared blankly into the fire.

“That was the police”, he said at last. “Father just blew his brains out at Ronald's house. He's dead!”

Sherlock rose slowly to his feet.

“This has now become a murder investigation”, he intoned gravely. “Doctor, you and I must go to the Nonpareil Club as a matter of urgency.”

“They will not admit you”, the soldier said flatly. “Do you wish me to come...?”

“They will when I tell them the alternative”, Sherlock said grimly. “Mr. Upwood, my sincerest apologies on your bereavement, but if we are to both apprehend and secure justice against the man responsible for your father's death, we must move quickly.”

Our host seemed to come to his senses.

“You think that he may flee the country?” he asked.

“I wish this matter dealt with”, Sherlock said, a little evasively I noticed. “The sooner the better. The doctor and I will return here when we have news. Good day, sir.”

He bowed, and swept from the room. I followed as quickly as I could.

+~+~+

Lieutenant Easton had been right about our reception at the Nonpareil Club; it was about as cold as the Arctic Ocean. Two large footmen almost immediately tried to usher us out, only to be sent backwards by punches from Sherlock. For a small man, he could deal a heavy blow.

“Unless your employers wish the bulk of the capital's constabulary to fall on this building”, Sherlock said firmly, “they will permit my visit.”

A smartly-dressed man hurried out from a back room at all the commotion, and introduced himself as Mr. Paul, the day manager. Once it was made clear that Sherlock merely wished to talk to the cloakroom attendant who had been on duty that night and then see the scene of the crime, he grumpily acquiesced, and we were shown into a small and mean side-room. Some little time later, a balding but smartly-dressed man wearing the club uniform entered. 

“Mr. Octavian Drake, sir”, he said. “You wished to see me?”

Sherlock gestured for him to sit down.

“I wish to ask you something, Mr. Drake”, he said, his voice low and menacing, “but before I do, it is only fair that I impress upon your good self the seriousness of the situation as it stands this evening. Colonel Upwood committed suicide this afternoon, and as I believe that he was driven to that most desperate act ba member of this club, I am now investigating a case of murder most foul. I am sure that I need not remind you of the importance of accuracy in the recollections of witnesses in such a case. Judges, in my experience, can take a dim view of people whose memory is less than perfect, and they tend to believe that a long period of time in a jail cell would 'improve' that memory.”

The man was already sweating, I noted.

“I have just one thing to ask of you”, Sherlock said, “but I need details. Every single little detail; nothing is too unimportant. I wish to know exactly what happened when the four people in that room arrived at the Club that day.”

Mr. Drake nodded, and thought hard.

“Mr. Barclay arrived first, sir, but I don't remember the time. I am sorry.”

Sherlock smiled reassuringly.

“The time itself is probably not important, but I will need to know roughly how long it was between each person's arrival. And in particular, what each man was wearing.”

The attendant nodded.

“Mr. Barclay had a long back coat, foreign I think”, he said. “He was carrying it when he came in, and handed it over straight away. It was one of those warm, muggy days with lots of showers, so I presumed that it was dry outside at the time; my room does not possess itself of a window. Mr. Barclay took his ticket, and went into the club.”

“Lord Franks arrived about ten minutes later; at least, not more than fifteen. He had a brown wool coat, very wet, so there had to have been a heavy shower outside. He was quite cross – he lives in the same road as the club, so would have walked - and I had to call him back for his ticket.”

“The gentlemen do not come into the cloakroom itself?” Sherlock asked.

“They can, sir”, the attendant admitted, “but they very rarely do. If they want something, they usually come to the counter and ask for it. Some of the older members like to get their own things, but I have to admit them by raising the counter, and stay with them. Security, you see. There is no way in otherwise except by the back door, but that was locked. I checked afterwards, and Mr. Paul had the key all day.”

“Interesting”, Sherlock said.

“Lieutenant Easton and Colonel Upwood arrived together; I think it was a little under ten minutes after Lord Franks”, he went on. “The lieutenant handed me his coat – a thin light brown raincoat, rather poor quality - then he took the Colonel's black military overcoat and gave me that. He waited for the tickets whilst the Colonel went on ahead, but he had to call him back, as the old man had forgotten the cards.....”

His voice faded, and he looked puzzled.

“But that is impossible!” he muttered.

“What is?” I asked.

“When the lieutenant handed me the coats, his was almost dry and the Colonel's was wet. Yet they came in at the same time, and I know that both of them walked.”

Sherlock looked pleased at that news, for some reason

“When the Colonel took the cards from the lieutenant, did he pocket them?” he asked.

The attendant frowned with the effort of remembering.

“No”, he said at last. “He was carrying them when he entered the building. They were in a small wooden box; I suppose that it was too heavy for his cheap pockets.”

“Did Lord Franks bring the chips?” I asked.

“That I do not know, sir. But he did have a small case with him apart from his coat, so they may have been in that.

“Excellent!” Sherlock beamed. “You have been most helpful, sir. Now if you would kindly show us to the room in question, we shall conduct the business we need to conduct there, and then never darken the doors of this place again!”

+~+~+

We spent some little time in the billiard-room. Sherlock implanted something down the pockets on each table that, he assured me, would on release emit a particularly foul odour. And apparently there is now a device that can warp billiard-tables so that balls no longer travel in straight lines. Technology can be wonderful at times!

I had thought we would hail a cab back to Kent upon leaving that baleful place, but Sherlock was eyeing a small coffee-shop across the street.

“Wait here just a moment, Watson”, he said, before dashing over the road and into the building. I sighed. Coffee at a time like this. Honestly!

He emerged just moments later, smiling.

“Sometimes the long shots pay off!” he smiled. “We must return to Lee, and set poor Mr. Upwood's mind at rest!”

“How did you know about the dry coat?” I asked, as he hailed a cab.

“The lieutenant's coat had to be dry”, he said, as a cab stopped for us. “It was the only possibility.”

I wished that I could see why, but he said nothing as we soon crossed the Thames and headed back to Lee.

+~+~+

I was, as with everyone else, to be kept waiting a little longer, for no sooner had we arrived at Cecil Upwood's house than Sherlock asked if he might have ten minutes to attend to an urgent matter. I wondered if he was going to send a telegram, but I heard no-one being summoned to the writing-room, so the matter remained a mystery. Until after barely ten minutes he joined us. Miss Forrester had been across earlier, but Mr. Upwood had walked her home for the night.

“This has been a most unusual case”, Sherlock said, holding some sort of letter in his hands. “Fortunately it is now solved, although the matter of actually ensuring justice may be a little complicated.”

“How can it be complicated?” Mr. Upwood asked. “If my father did not cheat, then someone else did. What is not black and white about that?”

Sherlock looked at him almost sorrowfully. He paled.

“You are not telling me that my father did actually cheat?” he gasped.

“I am not telling you that”, Sherlock said. “What I do have to tell you, however, is still painful.”

He turned to the lieutenant.

“ _You_ killed him, sir”, he said, his voice ice-cold. “As surely as if you had driven a knife into his heart, or had shot him in the chest. You are responsible for the death of Colonel Jeremiah Upwood, and you alone.”

The lieutenant had gone deathly pale.

“Is this some sort of joke?” he managed.

“I will tell you why you did it”, Sherlock said, “then I will tell you how. A search of the army records will reveal that Easton is not your real name. You changed it on joining the army, the reasons for which were, pure and simply, revenge.”

“Poppycock!” the lieutenant blustered.

“It is unfortunate for you that I am well acquainted with the atlas of England”, Sherlock said. “In the fair county of Northamptonshire there is a charming little village called Easton Maudit. Lieutenant Patrick Maudit was your elder brother, and when he took his own life after his attempt to smear a rival officer backfired, you held the Upwoods responsible, even though it was totally your brother's fault. Reuben Upwood was soon beyond your reach, but you would still have blood for blood.”

“Lies!” the lieutenant snapped. I had made sure that I was between him and the only exit from the room. And I had my gun ready, just in case.

“You took the name of the village that, long ago, took its name from your ancestors”, Sherlock went on. “Barrett Maudit became Barrett Easton, working his way into the army intent on only one thing – the destruction of Colonel Jeremiah Upwood. And when you found that his son was dating an attractive young girl, you acquired yet another motive for your dark deeds. You knew she would never look at a lowly lieutenant when she could have a Colonel's son – but if that son's name was blackened beyond repair, then he would have to withdraw, leaving the field open to you. I do not know if you foresaw that your actions might lead to the Colonel taking his own life, but then, I really doubt that you would have cared anyway.”

“You waited for a week in which the Colonel brought the cards for your games at the club. On that fateful day you arrived at Hope Street much earlier than you told us, and seated yourself in a coffee-shop opposite to await your target's arrival. I have to tell you that the waitress remembers you, lieutenant, and I am sure that her description of you would stand up in a court of law. She also described you as waiting for someone to appear in the street, and how you then rushed out quickly, almost knocking someone over in your haste.”

The soldier put his head in his hands and groaned. Mr. Upwood stared at him in shock.

“It was that waiting that gave you away”, Sherlock went on. “Colonel Upwood was both caught in the shower which stopped moments before you and he reached the club. Had you been walking there and met him in the street as you claimed, your coat would have been as wet as his was. Yet the cloakroom attendant confirmed that his coat was wet and yours was dry.”

“Four weeks earlier, you had taken great care to notice the sort of playing-cards that the Colonel brought when his turn came around. You had an identical deck in your own pocket – except that yours were marked! Then all you had to to was make sure the Colonel asked you for the cards whilst both coats were in your possession. And, of course, to drop a card later in the evening and make the fateful comment drawing attention to the marking.”

“You bastard!” Mr. Upwood ground out. “I should kill you here and now!”

“Let us not complicate matters by having _you_ accused of murder”, Sherlock said consolingly. “I have a somewhat better resolution.”

He unfolded the piece of paper he had been holding and placed it on the table.

“This is a signed confession”, he told both men. “Lieutenant, you will sign it, then Mr. Upwood, the doctor and I will all witness it.”

The soldier looked at him warily.

“And?” he asked.

Sherlock looked at him darkly.

“Twenty-four hours from now, I shall hand this document over to the relevant authorities”, he said firmly. “What you choose to do in the meantime is your own business, lieutenant. Regretfully I doubt that a jury would convict you of murder, though equally I am sure you do not need me to tell you that social ruin awaits if you remain in this country. The decision is yours.”

The soldier stared balefully at us, then grabbed the pen and signed his name without even reading the document. Before the rest of us had signed our own names, he was gone from the room, and we never saw him again.

+~+~+

I would have liked to conclude this story by saying that Lieutenant Easton did the decent thing and blew his brains out, but sadly this was not the case. Once Sherlock had handed his confession in, the police called at his house, to find he had sold up and fled. Inquiries at the docks elicited the fact that a military man had paid for a last-minute berth on a crossing to the Continent, but there the trail went cold, and the world heard no more of Lieutenant Barrett Easton.

Cecil Upwood did marry Elizabeth Forrester, the day after his twenty-first birthday the following year. Most unusually (although perhaps because of the scandal surrounding his father's death), he took her name. She sent us both a slice of wedding-cake, which was nice of her – and unlike so many who required our services, we had not seen the last of the lady.

+~+~+

How can a man be both guilty and not guilty of murder? In our next case, I find out just how.


End file.
